


work smarter

by casualbird



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Friendship, Gender Confirmation, Gender Dysphoria, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Trans Male Character, could be read as shippy or not depending, literally every tagged character is trans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:28:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22230316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualbird/pseuds/casualbird
Summary: Linhardtcouldkeep reminding Caspar to bind responsibly--but there's always an easier way.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez & Linhardt von Hevring, Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring
Comments: 26
Kudos: 101





	work smarter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [danny!!!!!](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=danny%21%21%21%21%21).



> I am not trans myself--I am the non-binary friend--but this fic was inspired by my experience watching my beloved trans friend as they went through the process of getting top surgery. I hope you enjoy!

Caspar... is a troublesome person. And Linhardt knows this, and loves him anyway, but _honestly._

Can’t a person get any damn rest?

It seems like every third breath, Linhardt’s hearing the tail end of some ludicrous proclamation or another, oozing enough bravado, enough unearned confidence for Caspar to _slip_ in it--and oftentimes he _does,_ because the boy never watches where he’s going.

And then he’s got to go and _deal with it._

Caspar, you can’t eat three meat pies in one sitting. Caspar, you can’t take both of those full-grown men, no matter what they said about Dorothea. Caspar, you can’t pass your strategy midterm without studying, and no, Caspar, you cannot climb the trellis on the dorm building just to play a prank on Hubert. (Well. Actually, he _could_ do that. And Hubert was pissed, and hexed him, but it was, admittedly, hilarious.)

And it’s always different, always ridiculous in a new, maddening way that Linhardt will swear blind he doesn’t secretly find charming. (He does.)

Except for the one thing, perennial as the stars, as the turning of the seasons, as Seteth being _right behind you_ when you’ve got a dirty book in your hand.

_“You’ve got to take your binder off, Caspar.”_

If Linhardt had a gold for every time he’d said that in his life, even a copper, well. It wouldn’t matter that he was old money, not at all.

Linhardt says it every afternoon after lessons, when Caspar goes to train, every night before Caspar goes to bed. At certain daybreaks, when Linhardt’s trudges back from the library coincide with Caspar’s jogs. Certainly, before every tournament, before every month’s engagement.

Still--even though he never stops, even though Linhardt hears those words in his sleep, it’s the one thing he’d never begrudge him.

He understands, at least as much as he can. He grew up at Caspar’s side, has watched--all of this unfolding. Has sat up nights with him, listening to him rant, wrestling with things he hasn’t quite got words for.

And, well. Linhardt can, in a way, relate. He’s never quite gotten why people look at him and see a _boy,_ an _heir,_ a _handsome young man_ (ugh) when he’s never lifted a finger toward appearing--toward _being_ one way or the other.

He can only imagine it’s that much worse for Caspar, who sometimes feels as if he’s done nothing but.

So he reminds him, as gently as his exhausted droning tone allows, and Caspar scowls and whines a little and, generally, thanks him.

But there’s got to be a better way. There’s _always_ a better way to take care of problems, one that leaves more time for crest research, for naps.

Linhardt’s usual first course of action is to ignore the thing entirely, but that’s not going to work. Caspar is his friend.

So he goes to the library, first, and then Manuela’s private collection, after finding that Seteth has confiscated most books with anatomical drawings in them. And then Manuela shows him her personal notes, because she’s _got some,_ because she used to sing tenor before she was the opera house’s star mezzo-soprano.

Learn something new every day.

And then the war breaks out, and it’s a massive headache in all aspects but this one.

If Linhardt is going to wait out this conflict, then there’s no better place to do it than his ancestral home. Well--just for this. Being home is generally a pain in the ass. But living in the old house of Cethleann’s crest, _well._ Linhardt’s father, frustrating though he is, has a _fabulous_ medical library.

So he stays there, and works and works and works, and does not fight in the war, and barely speaks to his father, and finds that this arrangement suits him just fine, thank you.

And then he goes back to Garreg Mach, because of this annoying little promise that he’s made, and he’s back in the thick of it. Having things to do, people counting on him. _People other than Caspar._ (Really, if it would just be Caspar, then it’d be fine by him. Not that he’d ever say.)

Obnoxious.

Bloody.

Exhausting

What’s not exhausting, though, is realizing that over the past five years, he’s become--quite the accomplished thaumaturge. At least in theory.

Realizing that, with Caspar and Manuela and himself all in the same place again, his research might actually see results. At least in theory.

So he lays it all on her desk, every rough-edged parchment, every little scrawled-on scrap, all in an enormous binder (ha) that makes an almighty thud when he drops it there.

And she looks it over, hemming and hawing, and then the next morning--exhausted, bleary-eyed, a truly kindred spirit--tells Linhardt that it should work. At least in theory.

When Linhardt approaches Caspar, sits him down and explains, in soft tones, what he can do for him--he thinks he’ll remember the astonishment on Caspar’s face for all his days.

He’ll definitely remember the crush of Caspar’s hug, the shouting in his ear.

“You mean it? It’ll work?”

“At least in theory,” Linhardt says, forcing himself to hedge--but he cannot help but smile.

Theory-- _Linhardt’s theory_ \--is good enough for Caspar.

So Linhardt chooses a day that they oughtn’t be disturbed, and gathers everything he’ll need, and brews two potions--a sleeping draught for Caspar, something that wild horses couldn’t wake him from, and something for his own stomach, because, well.

Even if it’s this, even if it is the crowning glory of his career thus far, Linhardt and blood are still not friends.

And then the day comes, and Caspar is giddy, totally unafraid, bouncing until the potion kicks in and he’s dead to the world.

His sleeping hand slips out of Linhardt’s, and Manuela gives him a nod.

Turns out, Linhardt’s brilliant theory is brilliant experimentally as well. And when Caspar comes to, grumbling, squinting sleep out of his eyes--

“No fucking way.”

“Yes, Caspar, fucking way--oh, don’t move your arms! Lie still, just... How do you feel?”

And Caspar flops his muzzy head to the side, meets Linhardt’s eye with a face full of exhilaration like he’s just ended the war with his bare hands.

“Shit, Lin... I’m glad I got _that_ off my chest...”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I hope you had as much fun reading this as I did writing it! Make sure to tell me what you thought (including if I've gotten anything wrong) and come hang out with me on my (18+) [twitter](https://twitter.com/bird_scribbles) if you like!


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